My Condition Says

Don't get too prosy on me
my condition says,
my art, my gut (six a one). That
prosy shit is so gay. Write
a poem, take that prose and
boil it, no
chew first, swallow and boil
and then start over.
Get to the smelly
acid juice of it.
make it stink good,
like an angry white girl,
Plath, Woolf, maybe every
white girl, I don't know.
Angry at who we are and who
we are not, take that birthright
and boil each word.
Boil the prose and sweet
right out. Stink,
sister, stink.